Nostalgic
by Raven Aorla
Summary: Years after the incident that traumatized Sherlock Holmes and crippled Jim Moriarty, they have to work together again. Sebastian Moran, John Watson, and Irene Adler aren't thrilled about it either.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **

Nostalgic

**Sequel To**:

Sentimental

**Fandom:**

Sherlock (BBC)

**(The Very Complex) Pairings: **

- Sherlock/John queerplatonic life partnership

- John/A Series of Lovers He is Very Gentlemanly Towards to Satisfy His Needs

- Sherlock/Irene romantic but not sexual

- Irene/A Series of Lovers She Not At All Lady-Like Towards to Satisfy Her Needs and Occasionally Pay the Bills

- Sebastian/Jim married for 5 years

- Mentions of past Jim/Sherlock non-con sexual

**Summary:**

"Working together has proven necessary and therapeutic for both of them, yet the geniuses can't resist taunts, some laced with intense bitterness. At which point Irene, John, and Sebastian will Remind Them Lives Are At Stake and We Don't Have All Day."

...

**Chapter 1**

In 2011, the world's only consulting criminal baited, tantalized, and cavorted with the world's only consulting detective over a period of several days.

It stopped being a game - for the detective, anyway - when the detective offered himself to the criminal, in any capacity, in order to save the life of the detective's only friend, a former army doctor.

It _definitely _stopped being a game for the criminal when the army doctor teamed up with a professional dominatrix/blackmailer to rescue the detective.

And it changed shape entirely when the criminal's right-hand-man, a former army sniper, cut a deal with a government official (some would say the government itself, especially this official's younger brother, who happens to be the aforementioned detective) to save the life of the criminal. It is interesting to note that a) the deal was with a steep price and b) the motivation could not have been anything other than love.

...

In 2012, the man once known as James Moriarty attempted suicide unsuccessfully for his fourth time. "You're not going to let me, are you, Sebby?" he asked the man cradling him gently on the bed in their tiny flat, rocking him like a child after forcing him to vomit up the various pills and alcohol he'd taken earlier.

"No, Jim. Never." Definite and solid. Like the man once known as Sebastian Moran himself.

"I'm blind_. _I'm fucking _blind, _and I can't move my legs, and neither of those things are ever changing, and every day I wake up with Sherlock's fucking brother laughing at me in my head."

Jim felt a kiss where his jaw met his ear. Sebastian stroked his hair, ignoring the squirms. "I never saw him laugh. Did you?"

"It's an expression, you dimwit." Jim stabbed at the much-larger man's muscled torso with a shaky forefinger.

"Will you marry me?"

"First, that's changing the subject in an extremely disrespectful manner, and second, we're already married. The documents Mr...Mr...Mr. Holmes gave us have us as Mr. Simon and Mr. James Conan-Doyle. We even have rings."

"But those aren't really us. Let's elope. Get out of this arse-end of nowhere of a Kiwi village and go to Auckland for a honeymoon. I'll get you a Braille tutor and one of those Braille typewriters and lots of books you can read once you've learned it, and you can write that treatise on clearing up various misconceptions in advanced calculus you always ramble about when you're high. I'll even find someone to publish it, whether or not that takes putting various academics into chokeholds."

There was such a long silence that Sebastian started to think Jim had fallen asleep. Ever since Mycroft Holmes had ordered Jim's eyes surgically removed, along with vital nerves severed so he was paralyzed below the waist - though since Jim _had _forcibly taken Sherlock Holmes' virginity before The Woman betrayed both of them Sebastian could grudgingly see his point - it was really, really difficult to tell whether Jim was asleep or just silently coming up with elaborate murder schemes. His breathing patterns tended to be similar in either case.

Jim did, finally, say, "Do you suppose anybody's translated any smutty books into Braille?"

"Let's find out."

...

In 2013, Sherlock Holmes had dinner with Irene Adler.

"It took you such a long time to respond to my invitation that I started to think you never would," she said as she took her seat.

"It's for a case," Sherlock said, glancing at the menu. "Avoid the oysters here, there's a disgruntled busboy that works on Tuesday and Thursday nights."

She laughed. "You're so sweet, even when you're showing off."

"Why did you help John save me?"

"Why did you not ask me until two years later?" When she saw something vulnerable in his face at the question, she reached to touch his hand.

He grabbed her wrist. "Don't."

"Do you let Doctor Watson touch you?"

"Yes, inasmuch as that happens, which isn't particularly frequent. What does that matter?"

She withdrew her hand but her eyes were steady and warm. "It matters everything in the world."

He let that go for the moment, because the mystery involving a former president of the Czech Republic

was far too interesting and Irene's whispered-about liaisons with his niece too substantial a lead to be ignored. But he filed it away in one of his mental folders.

...

In 2014, Professor James Conan-Doyle became the youngest and most heavily disabled professor of advanced mathematics in New Zealand history, which despite being a rather narrow category was still something people praised. He declined all interviews and other media attention.

A young adjunct named Katherine Winter became his assistant in all professorial duties that required sight, though after the first semester he was able to pinpoint chattering students with even more accuracy than most ordinary instructors. Kitty, as her friends called her, soon became the only person other than Jim's husband Simon that Jim seemed to enjoy interacting with outside of a strictly professional setting. She did wonder why after a few drinks Jim would frequently call her "Molly" by accident. Usually after that he would add something like, "Sorry - sorry, you're better than Molly, a lot better, at least you know your cosines from your parabolas and when a man is or isn't interested in you..."

On most days of the week he lectured while wearing a special pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, but on Fridays he would come with a pair of glass eyes from his collection he had custom-made, some of them normal-looking but in unusual colors like violet, topaz, or blood red, then others with slit pupils, some pitch black, and most memorably ones that mimicked the effects of those stick-on googly eyes (only on a larger scale). On Halloween he wore none and just let the students gape at his sockets.

Lost them in a bombing, was the story. Was in military intelligence in Afghanistan. Lost the use of his legs, too. How sad. How brave. How inspiring.

His wheelchair too frequently rammed into people who dared to inquire after details for it to be accidental. If his husband was pushing the wheelchair sometimes said people were even knocked over.

...

In 2015, Sherlock abruptly fell silent in the middle of a sentence about how idiotic Inspector Dimmock was for not noticing the tan lines on the murder victim's big toe and how this meant the geese could not possibly have been in the broom cupboard.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked him.

"He's alive," Sherlock whispered.

"Who?" John asked.

"Excuse me..." one of the police offers began.

Sherlock waved everyone off. "Come with me, John. Need data."

"But the murder..."

"This is far more important, and anyway it's patently obvious that the granddaughter did it."

Dimmock protested, "But she's six years old!"

"That's why it was so obvious; small children are terrible at subtlety in their violent crimes. I'll text you the details. The important thing, John, is that Mycroft lied to me, and I need to find out why."

...

In 2016, Irene Adler discovered a conspiracy that she could have turned to her advantage, yet was so terrible that she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she called Sherlock.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. If you need money to make it worth your while, I have a couple people I have fascinating pictures of whom I can call."

"The case has its own merits. Take care of the expenses we incur in solving it and I'll call it even. It might be more than we can do by ourselves."

"Are you saying -"

"No, no, it's not that I can't intellectually manage it, but first off I only speak French, German, Arabic, fingerspelling, Morse Code, and a very minor amount of Mandarin; John can barely get by in Farsi these days, and his Semaphore is appalling..."

"Don't worry about that. I speak Japanese."

"Oh?"

"I have many Japanese clients."

"Ah. Convenient for us, then, assuming you have vocabulary beyond what is strictly necessary for your appointments."

"You can get pretty far with just that, but I actually am quite fluent."

"And also there are some things the Yakuza keep very closely guarded among themselves. It's possible that we'll need someone who's had dealings with them."

"Well..."

"I mean, other than recreationally, no maligning of your profession meant."

"You have no idea how tedious some of these submissives are to keep happy, but I appreciate the addendum."

"Give me time to research. I have a backup plan, but I'd very much rather not use it."

"Thank you, darling."

"Dinner? John will be there."

"Has he given up on keeping girlfriends, then?"

"Seems to have. These days he mostly just disappears for a night and comes back obviously post-coital the next afternoon. Definitely doesn't pay for them, but doesn't go back to them either."

"That's probably best all round. In that case I'll bring Mary. She loves being a footstool and I haven't let her leave the house all week yet."

"I'm sure John will at least be diverted in his attempts not to stare."

...

In January 2017, Jim was just about to leave the classroom after a reasonably successful day, when all of a sudden most of his nightmares were realized (not the ones about all his teeth falling out or the ones about Seb turning into a pile of angry raccoons with sniper rifles and grabby little hands, though, thank God).

"Cab for Professor James Conan-Doyle," said a voice he would have known anywhere.

Kitty didn't notice anything wrong, and gave him a quick, "Goodnight, Professor," before dashing out the door.

"Goodnight." Surely Sherlock couldn't simply kill him right there. That would look awful in the papers.

"Mycroft was thorough indeed." Was he gloating? And then, oh-so-considerate, "Careful, you're backing into a wall."

This was just annoying. Jim prided himself on his ability to navigate the classroom and the first floor of his house - the basement was where Seb kept his weapons, carpentry tools, and anything else dangerous, and Seb carried him up to the bedroom every night and down every morning - as long as things stayed in their places. Even the kitchenware and food in the lower cupboards were organized so he could make his own toast and tea, though making Seb do the real cooking was just as much hanging on to what power he still had as it was a safety consideration. They ate at restaurants a lot, though, especially since Jim could usually extort a pity discount.

His thoughts were getting off track. "How did you find me?"

"Some of your students have a Facebook fan page devoted to their favorite professor. Apparently quite a few fancy you. How heartwarming - a intelligence agent wounded in Afghanistan becoming a highly respected maths instructor despite now being both blind and paraplegic. I'm surprised it hasn't been made into a film."

"There were offers. I turned them down."

"Wise."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

Only at this point did the anxiety in Sherlock's voice make Jim realize that he wasn't the only one distressed by the situation. "I'm here for a consultation. I'm trying to take down a chapter of the Yakuza that has overstepped their bounds, and though we most likely both loathe each other to the very core of our beings, you know the criminal underworld like nobody else. And I know you've been aching for the game."

Jim laughed, feeling a little bit of the old fire in his veins. "How very sentimental."

Sherlock huffed. "I wouldn't call it that. Do we have a deal?"

"Your - your brother, he said Seb and I mustn't come up on the radar again."

"And so long as you are helpful, I can assure you that you won't. Not in a way that will upset him. Don't worry, I'm not a kidnapper, not like some."

"Oh haha, how very hi-larious."

"I believe John has just explained the matter to your...spouse. Here they come. I suppose you have my congratulations. Do you do any other teaming up on unwilling victims these days, or was that just part of your wild and dizzying courtship?"

"Please, Sherlock, I actually have a life here. A legitimate life where nobody dies."

"If you touch him, at all, even once..." Sebastian hissed.

"Seb, we're working with them," Jim said, his voice taut.

John added, with such mildness that it chilled Jim to the bone, "Turnabout is fair play; I suggest you count on the continued unfairness of life."

Then a woman's voice broke into the uncomfortable silence. The Woman. Jim wished, for just one mad second, that he could have leapt out of his chair and strangled her. "Petrol's expensive here and the car's still running, gentlemen; I suggested we go to the hotel to talk."


	2. Chapter 2

**This is now a collaborative fic, with contributions from Indigo 1100. Neither of us own these characters.**

Sebastian got out of the car on the parking lot outside the university (they had a nice car now, wheelchair-capable ramp and all, so Seb didn't have to carry Jim in his arms every time, which while he didn't mind it at all was very useful on those days when being carried in public was something Jim refused to permit) when the Game, as Jim had and would call it, changed yet again.

Standing next to the hood of the adjacent car, wearing a coat and trousers and a marginally calmer look than he did last time Sebastian saw him-

"Hello," said Doctor Watson. John Watson. Him. Here. Now. And while Sebastian would never deny that his mind didn't work as fast as Jim's, it worked fast enough, running right past 'they found us. Five years, and they found us' to the facts that had to, inevitably, come next. If John was here, Sherlock was probably with Jim. Which meant Sebastian had to be there too, as soon as possible. John might have been sent to intercept him. He didn't have a gun (he owned them, even a few legally, but violating concealed carry laws had too much of a chance of being radar for him to risk). He had a knife, which he could kill with. As long as Jim was alive, he couldn't kill John Watson. But if that stood in question…

"If your friend is trying to kill Jim, I'll fight you to the death." John didn't react to this, though whether because he didn't think there would be a fight, or because he thought he'd win it, Sebastian didn't know.

"Sherlock said you'd think something like that."

Sebastian matched John's calm, though he was faking it, caught between the protective instinct and the threat that he had lived by for these years. "What am I supposed to think?" And now he could tell that John was faking his calm as well, using it to hide what was underneath like Sebastian himself.

"Sherlock's here to get your boss's help. For a case. A consultation." And his mind ran again, the chances of this being true against the chances that attacking John Watson in any way would be considered on the radar. The first- he didn't know. The second- almost definitely.

"I'm not believing anything until I've seen him."

John didn't look like this was unexpected to him (Sebastian supposed that if their places were switched he'd expect – and John would ask for- the same).

They walked from the parking lot together, neither letting the other out of his sight.

...

_The first time they beat him, Sebastian fights back. It's an entirely useless exercise- he's severely outnumbered by people he can tell very quickly aren't ordinary prison guards – but apparently he makes an impression, because the next time they drug him first. They're clearly pretending to be over-eager not-quite-rule-breakers (even the photographer with the obviously-professional camera), and just as clearly know exactly what they're doing- nothing debilitating, no broken bones, no marks where they won't be covered by clothes (for the 'court room', he thinks), and plenty of pain. He endures it, and the subsequent ones. It's not as though he hasn't been through worse. _

_He's sitting in his cell (shackled to the cot) when the man shows up, a face Sebastian recognizes from Jim's obsession with Sherlock. 'Mycroft Holmes, brother, holds a minor position in the British government' (and next to it, Jim's annotation of 'ha, right!', a sentiment his presence here confirms). So the leadership has come to see him, and why might that be? (Sebastian won't deny he wants to know what's going to happen to them. Or might have happened already, to Jim, something he's been generally trying not to think about, because getting angry enough to hit the guards again when he can't doesn't help). The elder Mr. Holmes himself wastes no words._

"_Your employer has been repeatedly offered a deal, which he has repeatedly refused." The voice is neutral, the man's eyes show nothing, but he can hear Sherlock's "You're genuinely in love with him," behind the 'your employer', and he can hear the answer to his second question behind it all. He doesn't say anything._

"_The deal is information - all of it – about his assorted activities, in exchange for survival, under witness protection, in exile. Life, provided he stays off our radar until its end. We are now prepared to offer the same terms to you." His bonds are as secure as ever, struggle against them as futile. He has to settle for looking. _

"_My survival?" The returned scrutiny is like the weight of crosshairs._

"_His." There is a pause. It's not an offer Sebastian can or will refuse, and he knows it, but his mind spins through the reasoning anyway. Jim will consider this a betrayal. Jim has never been able to watch out for his own damn life, that's what Sebastian has been doing, for years now. That's why he's been doing it. That's what he'll keep doing. _

"_Your brother will find us," he says, unwilling to say it just yet. _

"_My brother will think you are dead." The non-contesting of the pronoun is confirmation, the implicit threat is obvious. _

"_I want to see him first." _

"_I believe that you will quite soon." And he leaves. The guards show up less than an hour later._

_..._

Jim was indeed alive, and well in all but his level of shock, when Sebastian and John reached him and Sherlock. There was a tone in Jim's voice that Sebastian did not like to hear. "Please, Sherlock, I have a life here. A legitimate life where no one dies."

Sebastian knew his threats had nothing to back them up, but making them was a knee-jerk reflex. "If you touch him at all, even once..."

And naturally the little doctor showed his soldier's core again. "Turnabout is fair play. I suggest you rely on the continued unfairness of life."

The moment was so uncomfortable that Seb was almost glad to hear that woman's voice. Ms. Adler seemed to have appointed herself referee of all the aggressive men around her.

It was a van, really, the vehicle they grudgingly allowed themselves to be lead to, black with tinted windows. The Holmes brothers had a flair for the dramatic almost as bad as Jim's. There was space for three in the back, but no convenient way to take Jim's chair along.

"Why don't you put the chair in your own car and then return, Colonel?" Sherlock asked as he unlocked the driver's seat. Getting into a car driven by Sherlock Holmes. His day was just improving by the minute.

Jim groped for Sebastian's hand and gripped it painfully tight. "Don't leave me with them."

"Of course I won't. I'm not a fool."

Ms. Adler pursed her vermillion lips. "Give me your keys and I'll do it. Load your husband in first."

"Well hurr durr," Jim said. Sebastian was a tiny bit relieved to see Jim acting more typically.

"Hold your arms out; put them around my neck," Sebastian said, as always when he was trying to pick up him gently. It always astounded him how little Jim weighed.

And a very small part of him twisted inside when Jim whispered in his ear as he latched on, "We need to be very careful, _Tiogar." _'Tiger' in Gaelic. Something Jim only called him once in a long, long while.

_..._

_Sebastian knows how trauma works, and its aftermath- however stoic everyone observes you are, it's not a thing you can go to war and not know. Flashbacks, and nightmares, and triggers- they're unpleasant things, all of them, and the world is full of unpleasant things, and living in it means dealing with them. _

_Jim knows how it all works too, could probably rattle off all the fancy medical words in their official orders if he was in the mood, which he, unsurprisingly, isn't._

_The obvious part of it is the rather severe difference between knowing something in theory and experiencing it in practice, but the other part- the, Sebastian thinks, possibly worse part- is the complete lack of control. For Jim, who treats control like a drug, exulting in it, pursuing it relentlessly, not having control over his own mind is worse than anything. _

_The first few months, it all feeds into the despair that either drags at everything, or manifests in the suicide attempts. Once they're past that, once Jim has decided he wants to live after all (and if Sebastian believed in any powers-that-be, he'd thank them until the end of time for *that*), it mostly turns into anger, generally normal anger, which is not a problem, and occasionally the other kind, which is. _

_Normal anger from Jim means biting taunts and sarcastic comments about everything and threats of the kind that most people assume are a joke (Sebastian tends to assume so too, though every now and then he remembers the few times when they weren't, and shudders). It's not the best for when they're out in public, and getting insulted repeatedly can get annoying, but it's hardly the worst of Jim's moods, and it's safe. The other kind, though-_

_They're at some university event or another. By one of the drinks tables, Jim is involved in an argument on university policy and one of those topics in advanced mathematics that Sebastian doesn't even know the words of, while Sebastian himself stands by the window and pretends to care about the upcoming elections. The argument gets marginally more interesting as it becomes ad hominem, but Sebastian is still about to go get another plate when the second professor says something about 'yes, we know, you're much too *brilliant* for all of us here, and if you'd like to go work somewhere more prestigious so you can prove it, then you can go right ahead', and he freezes. Freezes, and then turns to look at Jim, hoping for another retort for him, but none is forthcoming. Instead, Jim has also frozen, still in that sharp way that Sebastian knows as deadly – literally - focus._

_Sebastian is there immediately, saying something polite about New Zealand and its positive atmosphere, and something else about 'excuse us, please'. He gets them out of there, and as far away as possible, and suggests they leave the event early and go home, and Jim answers very calmly and politely, but Sebastian knows that doesn't mean the danger is over. _

_The other thing he knows is that there's nothing else he can do about it. This isn't one of those times where he can keep Jim away from something by tying him to the bed, or calm him down with sex or distraction or pliability. Jim has some lines that no one at all can cross, and this anger is one of them, and Sebastian will not try to fool himself into thinking he can actually stop a plan of Jim's from going through, if it comes to that. _

_Luckily, it seems that it doesn't. Sebastian checks the news regularly, and the professor does not appear in them, not as dead or as injured in some way that everyone except the one person who actually matters will believe to be an accident. He checks her home page at the university, and there is nothing out of the ordinary there either, and he waits but there are no calls and no texts and neither of them is kidnapped off the street or gassed unconscious in their sleep, so if Jim decided to take some revenge, it was either quiet enough to fly under even that radar, or is being left for the long game. _

_Either way, everything is fine for now, and either way, there's still the next time, and the next, and the next, because however many times they avoid trouble, the line only needs to be crossed once for there to be no way back._

_And if he has nightmares too, then that's what they're about, because protecting Jim from the world is useless if he can't protect him from himself, and while he doesn't intend to stop working at it until one of them is dead, Sebastian is not always entirely sure that he can._

_..._

Though he hated sitting in the middle of backseats, Sebastian felt a need to interpose himself between Jim and everyone else as best he could. Jim held his hand and practically adhered to his side during the journey.

"If we're done posturing," Ms. Adler said, taking out a very expensive phone and scrolling through the files, "there is the matter of this case. We will discuss it more in detail at the room but I want to give Jim -"

"Mr. Conan-Doyle to you," Jim snapped, head leaning, unseeing, against the window on Sebastian's other side.

"Very well. I want to give you a little extra time to think it over since you've known about this for less than ten minutes. Essentially the Yakuza have gone beyond their usual habits of money laundering, drug smuggling, and running prostitution rings to political warfare on legitimate sex workers. Bribing governments all around the world to reduce the rights of those in the trade, even tangentially, so that they can control the profits themselves. I have some compromising information on those involved, but you are so much better at blackmail and manipulation than myself or Sherlock."

Jim giggled. "So you're worried about all the poor little whores out there who aren't as protected as you."

Irene's eyes hardened, but it was Sherlock - what was going on between him and The Woman? - that riposted. "If the threat of your past being revealed, which admittedly would cause some inconvenience to myself and insufferable clucking from Mycroft, is insufficient, be aware that I would be able to convincingly produce the evidence to convict your spouse of illegal weapons ownership, running a gambling den every Thursday while you are having dinner and listening to the radio with a platonic female friend of yours, growing and smoking cannabis, and, oh, the small matter of the domestic violence including marital rape."

"God, Sherlock, was all that necessary?" Doctor Watson groaned.

Jim only clung to Sebastian tighter. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

_..._

_Jim still enjoys sex, to a point. But since that time, that man, that Mr. Holmes and his minions made permanent alterations to his ability to do so many things, his enthusiasm has somewhat diminished. _

_If anything, though, Seb's has increased. Especially on days when he gets frustrated by their life in hiding and his inability to kill people who annoy him. Or days when Jim hurts himself to feel something other than crushing tedium. _

_For example, one day he catches Jim slicing his forearms with a pair of scissors. The black bandanna tied around his eye sockets (more comfortable than his aviators or glass eyes when relaxing at home) gives him the odd air of playing a game of blind-man's-buff. His mouth is a thin line of concentration._

_Until Seb slaps him and yanks the scissors from him. "Where the fuck did you get that?"_

"Not telling," Jim sing-songs. It's always hard to tell when Jim's asking for trouble. It could very well be that Seb is playing straight into his game, but at this point he doesn't care. He's terrified and furious and...hungry. 

_The cuts aren't bleeding; too shallow. He knows that they soon would have been considerably deeper. At least this means he doesn't have to stop to clean and bandage. _

_Instead, he scoops Jim out of his wheelchair, ignoring the protests of, "I didn't say you could do that!" and "Put me back!" This sort of thing has become a ritual over the past three years. _

_Seb keeps velcro cuffs under the bed, since now that Jim is blind his ability to escape is far less than it was, making locking metal cuffs an unnecessary inconvenience. "You like pain, do you?" he growls, dropping Jim in the center of the mattress and holding him by the throat._

_Jim squirms in his grip. "Let go of me, you ape."_

_"I'll give you hurt. I'll give you more than anyone else possibly could, or would want to, because nobody else gets put through the shit that you put me through every bloody day."_

_Is Jim acting when he quavers and trembles? Seb's never found out for sure. Again, not particularly caring at this time. "Sebby, please..."_

_Seb wrenches Jim's hands over his head, threading the cuffs through the rail and tightening straps around each wrist. "I don't want to hear anything from you, _Boss_." The word is full of frustration and twisted obsession. _

_"I'll put arsenic in your tea."_

_"You won't, because no one else is going to put up with you. I'm all you have. And all you will ever have." Seb has to spread Jim's legs and hold them in place for him, of course, since Jim can no longer do so no matter how many threats Seb makes. Though he doesn't have sex with anyone else, and neither does Jim, Seb uses condoms just in case some encounter (Seb's with call girls and rentboys, Jim's with...other people) from their past tries to come haunt them, and also to make cleanup easier afterwards. _

_Jim tries to say something, so Seb slaps him again, hard enough to leave a red hand-shaped mark. "I said shut it, unless you're that desperate for my cock in your pretty, poisonous little mouth. " _

_When he's satisfied Jim isn't going anywhere, Seb takes off his belt - keeping it near, it might come in useful - and unzips his fly. He's fully erect already. Not much point in him undressing. But he takes a switchblade knife from where it's strapped to his leg almost all the time and growls, "Hold still as you can." Then he slices off the cheap white undershirt and exercise pants he demands Jim wears at home, to save on wrinkling his nice suits and afterwards having to iron them. The secondary reason being incidents like this._

_Jim's so gorgeous when he's naked and helpless, even with the possibility that the air of vulnerability is fake. He holds in his cries so tight as Seb bites and bruises, only to whimper with each new burst of sensation, shoulders shivering, face turned away as if that would make a difference. _

_Seb used lubrication, but gives Jim little time to adjust. "Ready?"_

_The word is soft and choked. "No..." _

_"Too bad."_

_Jim lets out a lovely scream when Sebastian roughly enters him, almost too perfect to be real. It must be playing. It must. But Jim isn't rocking his hips or squeezing in tandem the way he usually does after a while, which suggests actual anguish._

_Seb is no psychiatrist, and probably would have gone mad long ago in this company if he had been. But he knows there is only so far he can push before a final line will be crossed. He knows that it will mean both of their deaths. And as pissed-off as he is, as he so frequently gets, he isn't ready for something else than this lot he's been given. If this is real, Jim needs calming. If this is his most brilliant bluff yet, he's counting on Seb joining in on the masquerade. Either way a segue is called for._

_So when he's emptied himself, had his few seconds sprawled over Jim's limp and sweat-sheened body, he pulls out far more gently. He tosses the condom aside to deal with later. "You make me so angry, you know."_

_"I know," Jim says in a small voice, still spread-out and wanton, but oh so pale, so tiny and fragile._

_"Good for you you're such a pretty little thing. And I'm a generous man."_

_"I don't want any more..."_

_"Ssh. It's all right. I think you've learned a lesson." He coats two fingers in the cold jelly. Since the surgery that impaired Jim in so many ways, getting him to orgasm has taken more finesse. Seb's slide back in is gradual._

_"No, really, thank you, but I'd just like to rest now."_

_"It's not any more trouble than you regularly put me to." Scissoring his fingers and massaging Jim's prostate, Seb climbs up to Jim's level and kisses him. "I could be so much more pleasant if you didn't push me so far."_

_"Nnn...nnn..I - I know...ooh..."_

_"There's a good lad."_

_Jim is no longer capable of coming in an ordinary fashion, more of a dribble of ejaculate after prolonged stimulation, but he seems to enjoy it._

_When his hands are free and he's tucked in soft sheets, he lets Seb hold him and doesn't say a word._


	3. Chapter 3

Seb scooped Jim out of the car and carried him into the motel room. Jim gathered by hints in the conversation, though it was not stated explicitly, that this was where Sherlock and John were staying for a few days, while Irene had a far more posh suite in an actual hotel where she had a client booked that night. His husband placed him gently on one of the beds - it was too small and close to the door to be the only one - and straightened the lapels of his suit coat. "Don't let them get to you," Sebastian whispered, kissing his cheek.

Jim nodded, hugging himself. "Stay next to me."

"I'm right here."

"Well," said Doctor Watson, sounding uncomfortable and shifting in his seat, "I think everyone would be happiest if we got this over as soon as possible."

"Oh, honey, is someone nervous?" Jim asked in a mock-American accent.

Seb's fingers tightened around Jim's right wrist. A warning. The downside of marrying one's bodyguard, really.

"We had the relevant files translated to Braille and transcribed to audio, whichever you would find most efficient," Sherlock said, choosing to ignore Jim's latest dig.

"Braille is faster, and that way I can ask questions without having to pause a recording. Hand it over."

It was like a jolt of electric current when the tips of Jim and Sherlock's fingers accidentally touched. Seb inhaled sharply at the sight.

...

_Jim wakes still wrapped in Sebastian's arms, naked, sore as hell and covered in sweat. He knows the slightest movement will awaken his partner and he doesn't want that quite yet. He needs time to think about these incidents and how he feels about them. _

_It's funny how the man so possessively cradling him has risen from just another employee to his be-all and end-all, his one lover, his caretaker, his guard, his champion, his gaoler, and, yes, what ordinary people, people who don't understand the intricacies of Jim's mind and needs, would consider his abuser. Idiots. Cretins. _

_Every once in a while Jim allows himself to wish he had been born ordinary. But usually he thinks it's better being himself, no matter in what reduced a state, because to wish otherwise would be like longing for a lobotomy. _

_Truth is, he's glad Sebastian hurts him and takes things from him. Because it would be too much like real love if he didn't. Jim can have someone obsess over him, be devoted to him, be a loyal dog that occasionally nips and snaps at his hands when he pushes him too far. If someone were to completely, compassionately, and unselfishly love him, the way that doctor seems to feel for Sherlock even though they have not and probably never will shag - he doesn't know if he could stand it._

_Seb stirs. His grip on Jim is not quite a coercive one, but enough to remind him how easily more hurt can be doled out as the able-bodied and far-larger man chooses. His kisses in his hair and on his face and neck tell a different story, though. "Sleep all right, Boss?"_

_There. The term (used with the light tone, the smile in his voice though Jim cannot see it). Permission to go back to what passes for normal, for them. "Mm. Hungry."_

_"I'll make you something in a moment."_

_"Kay. I didn't get a chance to brush my teeth before falling asleep, you know. Last night. Tsk tsk."_

_Fingers tousle his hair. "I'll get you to the shower as well. Let me lie here for a bit."_

_"For such a big tough man, you do love to snuggle."_

_Then the voice, low, moves to his ear. "It's not the only thing I love to do."_

_"Still a bit tender, Seb."_

_"Did it sound like I particularly cared? Besides, your mouth is just fine."_

_Jim doesn't respond with enthusiasm, but he doesn't make a fuss as the ring gag Seb got him as a birthday present year before last is wedged into his mouth - "So my little viper doesn't try and bite," - and his wrists pinned above his head by a strong hand as Seb sits on his chest. The other hand tugs at his hair. This is more fun than last night. This is his milieu. He's not really certain what the difference is, except for Seb being clearly more about lust than wrath right now, and perhaps Jim's ability to participate more actively rather than just lie there and take it. _

_After, Seb brews him a pot of strong tea and sweetens it to obscene levels for him to wash down what he's recently swallowed, and then makes lemon crepes with whipped cream and sugar. The batter is from a mix, but it's very good anyway. _

_And if for a few minutes in the shower, when he's alone and cannot be heard over the sound of the water, Jim happens to sob violently without knowing quite why, it's all still a decent morning. _

_..._

As Jim focused on solving the puzzle set before him, he allowed himself to forget whose company he was in. It was good having some practical non-academic application, however brief, for his intellect once again.

Of course, not everyone in the room could appreciate such cerebral solace.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't crowd Jim like that," Sebastian told Watson.

The doctor gave a sick laugh. "It's not like he's really going to notice, is he?"

"John," Sherlock warned.

"You have a lot of nerve, acting like _we _owe _you _something. Still have a bit of a military complex, Colonel?"

"Maybe I take better care of what I care about than you do, Captain."

"Let it go, Seb," Jim said, not pausing his fingers running along the pages but still feeling tension crimp his shoulders.

"Gentlemen, really. I had the impression you all were over the age of twelve," Irene's voice broke in.

"And I had the impression that you were a whore with delusions of grandeur," Sebastian replied, eliciting a barely audible gasp.

Jim elbowed him. "What's gotten into you?"

"I can't focus with everyone fussing," Sherlock said, his voice ice cold. "Everyone except the two people actually getting work done out of this room. Now. I don't care where you go. Just go."

"I'm not leaving you with him," John said.

"I'm not leaving you with _him," _Sebastian said.

Irene said, "John, you and I can go into the hall, within reach if Sherlock needs us. You can't help but understand why Mr. Moriarty might feel vulnerable if he was here alone with Sherlock."

"But..."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes, why don't you, Johnny-boy?" Jim asked. "Shoo. The grownups are talking."

"Moran can stay if he shuts up and sits quietly," Sherlock said.

Jim didn't realize he'd forgotten to breathe until he felt Seb's fingers run through his hair, grounding him again. When he heard the door shut and footsteps dwindle, he said, "Now, I'm not sure if Mitsuhirato is still running the Osaka chapter, but in any case their most vulnerable link happens to be one of the gambling dens in the western portion..."


	4. Chapter 4

I do know where this is going! And will get around to writing it down properly! Indigo1100 and I hashed it all out (among other things she's become my muse). READ NO FURTHER IF YOU WANT TO BE SURPRISED ... ... ... So Irene's client is actually Kitty, who has been saving up for this encounter for over a year. After Irene helps John maintain his calm while they wait for Sherlock and Jim to finish talking, the two sets of men end up going their separate ways and think this is over. Sherlock back at his and John's hotel room demands Mind Palace time. Kitty sends a text to Irene shortly before their engagement, saying she's come into some unexpected extra funds and would like to turn this into a menage a trois if she can. Irene convinces John to be the third person - this does not take much effort. Cue bisexual consent-culture happy kink!  
Unfortunately, Jim is very rattled by this whole business, and is slipping into paranoia. An innocent voicemail message from Kitty gives him the thought that she knows his and Seb's secret. And therefore must die. Sebastian works to dissuade him from this notion, but Jim gets more and more agitated until he's having a meltdown. To which Seb ends up cuffing him to the bed and in various ways trying to settle him down in that position, his standard desperate tactic when he thinks Jim really is going to get them all destroyed from a temporary freakout.  
Sherlock falls asleep and has a terrible nightmare. He ends up storming into the suite where John, Irene, and Kitty are having aftercare and room service. This gives him his own meltdown, triggered by the fact that Kitty - at her own request - is handcuffed to a chair and being hand-fed, which reminds him too much of what Jim and Seb did to him. (This isn't a Trauma Conga Line, this is a Trauma Mosh Pit.)  
After both John and Irene soothing him, and Kitty apologizing and taking her leave, they talk for a while. Sherlock suddenly realizes where he's seen Kitty before, having been too upset earlier to realize it, and worries that she's in danger. He figures out the neighborhood Jim and Seb live in from a variety of clues and they rush there. Kitty has a set of keys to the Conan-Doyle home, which was something Jim and Seb have argued about constantly but Seb prevailed over the idea that if something were to happen to Seb suddenly, like a heart attack, they need a contact person who could help Jim, who now has an understandable phobia of official emergency services. She lets herself in, wanting to discuss the bizarre recent circumstances - for she recognized Sherlock too but did not say so at the time.  
I haven't figured out all the choreography yet, but in the final confrontation Seb is going to be in a fight with John and Sherlock, who are trying to incapacitate both him and Jim. Irene is acting as lookout. No one actually knows that Kitty is in the house right now. An absolutely at-the-end-of-his-rope Jim has managed to get himself free from his bindings and is blindly crawling around the floor. (Trauma Mosh Pit, remember.)  
Then, when John has Sebastian in a headlock and Sherlock just about to call the police, Irene comes in and tells them a light just came on in a room upstairs. So they frog-march Sebastian there.  
And find Kitty cradling a sobbing Jim, telling him everything will be all right, and though the past affects us deeply it is not the same as present and it does not ever, ever have to be the future. And Jim actually listening to her, and his breathing returning to something sustainable.  
Embarrassed and touched in ways they did not expect, the relatively-good trio apologizes (sort of) and retreats, though not without some parting threats, especially if anything is ever found out to have happened to Kitty. Jim accepts a dose of anti-anxiety medication and Sebastian takes his leave to help Jim get a hot bath. Kitty waits in the living room, reading.  
Final conversation:  
Seb: "I've put him to bed. He's very worn out."  
Kitty: "I should say so. Care to explain?"  
Seb: "He and Mr. Holmes were in a mission together that went very badly, and they were trying to settle scores. But I think they're done now."  
Kitty: "Good. Hardly the kind of nostalgia you'd want, is it?"  
Seb: "No, definitely not."


End file.
